


Then Last of All

by perilit



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Post-trolley station robbery in Chapter 4.Dutch and Hosea both struggle to deal with the after-effects of Dutch's head injury.The first faint tendrils of the sunrise are starting to creep onto the horizon. Hosea looks down at their intertwined hands, the way the fine, soft hair on Dutch’s knuckles looks almost silver in the light.Thinks about watching silver thread itself into the glossy black of Dutch’s hair.Wonders, idly, if he’ll even get the chance.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	Then Last of All

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a simple exploration of "hey, we didn't really get attention paid to the damage Dutch sustained during the trolley robbery besides the obvious decline following it (and Hosea's death)" and then turned into this behemoth, fueled by shenanigans on Twitter. 
> 
> I'm headcanon-ing that Dutch, at the very least, sustained some kind of traumatic brain injury, and had bruising behind his ear (Battle's Sign), which is a clear indicator that the skull has been fractured in some way. Not only would this injury have caused physical damage, but it would explain the rapid mental decline and mood swings Dutch was exhibiting by Chapter 6.
> 
> There's a chance Dutch might've been able to heal, but not with the way he kept pushing so soon afterward, and certainly not after sustaining a massive loss the way he did, so really, it's no wonder he lost a firm grip on reality. 
> 
> This got a little self-indulgent, but, well...sometimes I can't help it.

Hell might be something like Lemoyne, if you ask Hosea.

He’s been staring at the same page for twenty minutes now, the words blurring every time he blinks. No matter how often he scrubs his face, it seems as long as they’re here, he’s doomed to have a fine layer of dust settled on his skin and caked in his eyelashes. 

He rubs a hand over the day-old stubble on his face, wincing at the grit his hand leaves behind.

  
  


A sharp _“Who’s there!”_ comes suddenly from the treeline.

Lenny is seated in a wagon he doesn’t recognize, reins in hand. The horses are stamping in the dirt uneasily like they’ve been pushed hard and haven’t quite settled yet. Arthur is nowhere to be seen, and Dutch... _Dutch_ is sitting next to Lenny, his head cradled in his hands.

Hosea swallows down the spike of alarm that shoots down his spine, both at Arthur’s absence and Dutch’s posture. 

Since Arthur’s brush with Colm, he’d been wary of letting the boy out of his sight for long, despite Arthur’s proclivity to wander. For now, he pushes down his worry about Arthur, hurrying his strides over to the wagon where Lenny is helping Dutch down.

“How’d you get on, gentlemen?” he calls, forcing some measure of confidence he doesn’t feel into his voice.

“Not so good,” Lenny responds, at the same time Dutch growls, “He _set us up!_ ”

Hosea’s mouth twists into a frown, but he says nothing, just takes Dutch’s elbow from Lenny with a nod and a grateful pat to Lenny’s shoulder, guiding the man into the rotting walls of the house they’re squatting in. 

“What happened?” he says quietly, mindful of the way Dutch’s face is tight with pain.

“ _Bastard_ set us _up_ ,” Dutch scowls, stumbling a little over the first step as they reach the staircase. 

Hosea grips his arm a little tighter, slowing their ascent. “Don’t you fall down the stairs, now, too. Do I need to get Mr. Smith?”

Dutch grimaces. “No. I’m _fine_.”

“Sure,” Hosea replies dryly. “That's why you’re stumbling around like a fool.”

Dutch shoots him an exasperated look but says nothing, just furrows his brow, watching his feet intently as they reach the last few steps. 

The door gives way with a shove, and Dutch slips free of Hosea’s grip, sitting down on the bed heavily. 

Hosea watches him carefully. Dutch has been pushing, lately, driving the gang deeper and deeper with a desperation that borders on reckless. Twenty years ago, he might’ve been on board with all of this, might’ve bumped his forehead against Dutch’s in low lamplight while they planned some grand heist together.

Now, he just feels tired.

_Arthur_ , Lenny, Tilly...Susan and the girls, Charles... _John_ and Abigail. Dear, young Jack…

He just wants to see them _safe_ , wants to watch them settle into a sprawling homestead tucked away into some expanse of the quiet West. He wants to watch the gray grow into Dutch’s hair. He wants to see Arthur finally have the time to put down some of the sadness he carries around, watch the fond glances the boy’s been throwing at Charles bloom into something sweet and tender.

Somewhere, deep in his chest, he knows that it may never happen. Things have gotten too bad too quickly, and it seems they can never run far or fast enough to outrun the wolves at their heels.

Across the room, Dutch puts his head in his hands, and Hosea sighs, heading for the stash of medical supplies.

  
  


When he comes back into the room, Dutch is still hunched over, but he looks up from his hands at Hosea’s footsteps. Hosea frowns at how dazed the man looks, now that he’s paying attention to it. Dutch doesn’t resist when Hosea sits next to him, though, letting himself be pulled down onto Hosea’s thighs for better access to the gash gouged into his skull. 

Hosea lets the silence settle. More than likely, Dutch is mulling over the events of the day and, even more likely, trying to figure out a way to fix them. 

The gash isn’t alarmingly deep or wide, but there are angry bruises mottled across Dutch’s entire skull. Dutch’s fingers tighten their grip on Hosea’s pants when he presses cautiously on them to clean the injury. 

“Shh, _ahuvi_ ,” Hosea murmurs, using his free hand to stroke down Dutch’s back. 

He sets down the cloth he’s been using to dab at the dried blood on Dutch’s head, wringing it out clean in the bucket of water and draping it over the side. 

When he straightens back up, Dutch has opened his eyes, looking up at Hosea with something akin to worship, the pain in his face softened by reverence.

“Lie down with me,” he murmurs. 

As if Hosea would ever have the strength to refuse.

Dutch gingerly inches himself over to the other side of the mattress, and Hosea slots himself into the warm space left behind, pulling the man close and gently threading his fingers through Dutch’s dusty curls. 

“Does your head hurt, dearest?” Hosea whispers.

Dutch makes a soft sound in his throat, tucking his face tighter against Hosea’s neck. 

Hosea dangles his arm over the side of the bed, grabbing the damp cloth he’d set down. He folds it clumsily with one hand, smoothing it over Dutch’s eyes.

Dutch’s breathing evens out soon after, with Hosea’s fingers gently scratching the spot where his skull dips into a soft hollow. 

Hosea snaps awake to Dutch scrambling to climb over him.

“Wha- Dutch?” Hosea starts, alarmed, but Dutch is already stumbling towards the door, bent over oddly with one hand clutching his head. Hosea swings his legs over the bed, cursing when the blankets tangle in his feet. Dutch is swallowing convulsively, eyes squeezed shut.

Glancing around the room, Hosea spies the bucket he’d used to carry up water from earlier. He snatches it, ignoring the way the contents slosh across the rough floorboards, thrusting it in front of Dutch as the man starts vomiting. 

Hosea winces sympathetically, feeling for Dutch’s hand. 

Dutch grips it hard enough to hurt, holding onto the tub with his other hand, knuckles eerily white in the gloom. For a while, the only noise is Dutch’s harsh panting as he rides out the fit, Hosea murmuring quiet reassurances every time he resurfaces.

  
  


Eventually, Dutch stops heaving, slumping back. Hosea wraps an arm around him, guiding Dutch back to rest against his body. 

“Startin’ t’ think it might be more than just a knock on the head, Dutch,” he murmurs quietly. 

Dutch grunts, turning his head slowly to bury his face in Hosea’s neck again. 

The first faint tendrils of the sunrise are starting to creep onto the horizon. Hosea looks down at their intertwined hands, the way the fine, soft hair on Dutch’s knuckles looks almost silver in the light. 

Thinks about watching silver thread itself into the glossy black of Dutch’s hair.

Wonders, idly, if he’ll even get the chance.

They’re old men. Worn-down outlaws in a world that has only gotten less forgiving.

Dutch’s breathing has evened out again, and Hosea turns his head to press a kiss to the man’s temple, smooths back a stray curl. 

  
  
  
  


Hosea doesn't fall back asleep, content to let Dutch rest against him and watch the sun wearily climb further into the sky. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn't worried; the deep bruising on Dutch’s skull suggests that whatever happened resulted in something more severe than just a little bump, and the vomiting doesn’t assuage his worries. He’s no good with head injuries - even all the skills he’s picked up over the years don’t extend to things like this. All he can hope for is that Dutch’s body, with time, heals.

_Time_. 

That’s the catch, isn’t it? They don’t have time to let Dutch rest the way he needs to, not with Pinkertons so close to their heels, and Bronte no doubt alerted to the fiasco at the trolley station. 

He doesn’t trust Bronte. Despite not spending more than ten minutes with the man, Hosea can tell that he’s a greasy leech, desperate for power, insecure enough to use whatever means he can to get it. 

...In a way, Dutch could’ve been Bronte, in some past life, if Dutch had been born into money, surrounded by rich folks instead of the ragtag group of criminals they run with.

The door eases open, and Hosea is pulled from his train of thought by Arthur’s concerned face.

“How’s he doin’?”

Hosea sighs. “Got sick, ‘bout an hour ago. I don’t know what happened, at the trolley station, but...”

The worry lines that seem to have permanently etched themselves into Arthur’s face deepen. 

“Nothin’ good,” Arthur says with a scowl. “We’ll... _well_ .” He sighs. “We’ll keep an eye on him, ‘sea. Can’t take him to Saint Denis, not now, and it’s too risky to go further, with Dutch being, well, _Dutch_.” 

“I know,” Hosea murmurs, worrying his thumb over the cool metal on Dutch’s hand. “I know.”

He straightens his spine, wincing when it cracks loudly in the silence of the room. “Help me get him back in bed, will you?"

Arthur nods, moving closer to Hosea, who runs a gentle hand through Dutch’s hair. 

Dutch stirs sluggishly, sitting up with a hand cradling his temple. Arthur moves closer to help him up.

Dutch blinks heavily at him. “Art…” 

Hosea’s anxiety ratchets up a notch. 

Dutch hasn’t called Arthur _that_ in...years. Not since it was just the four of them. When Dutch was softer, unclouded by doubt, unafraid of the gentle edges paternity brought. He doubts Arthur even remembers the nickname, but Hosea sure as hell does. 

“Yeah, Dutch,” Arthur says quietly. He stoops and slides an arm under Dutch’s, pulling the older man up with him easily. 

As Arthur sets Dutch down gently on the bed, Dutch’s hand grabs onto Arthur’s, his eyes still half-open against the morning light. 

“... _sorry_.” Dutch’s voice is faint.

Arthur’s face crumples for a moment before he reels himself in. It’d be imperceptible to anyone else, but Hosea knows what to look for, catches it in the second before it disappears. He places a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder, feeling the way Arthur leans into the touch.

“It’s-” Arthur clears his throat. “S’alright, Dutch. Just...get some rest.” 

Dutch’s eyes slide shut, though he keeps his grip on Arthur’s hand, and Hosea nudges a chair under Arthur’s knees. 

“Sit, Arthur,” Hosea murmurs, voice gentle. “Maybe he’ll actually get some damn _rest_ with you here.” Arthur nods, his eyes still fixed on Dutch. 

_And you need to see for yourself that he’s still breathing,_ Hosea adds silently.

“I’m going to go speak with Mr. Smith, I’ll be back in a bit.” 

He gives Arthur’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before crossing the room, pulling the door shut firmly behind him.

The lie had slipped past his lips without a second thought, borne out of the need to give Arthur some time alone with Dutch, but the more that he thinks about it, Charles has, on more than one occasion, trumped even Hosea’s knowledge of herbal remedies. 

It’s not the worst idea he’s had. 

  
  
  


The sun is high in the sky, now, and Hosea, for the thousandth time, curses the ungodly heat of Lemoyne. 

Charles looks up, suddenly, setting aside the bundle of herbs in his hand. Hosea is about to ask when he catches sight of Arthur. At Hosea’s nod, Charles silently makes himself scarce as Arthur reaches where they’re sitting.

“Hosea-” Arthur stops, shuffling his feet in the way he does when he’s nervous. “Dutch is- he needs you.” 

Hosea swallows back the ribbon of fear that comes with those words. “He’s not-”

“ _No_ .” Arthur places a heavy hand over Hosea’s, squashing his anxiety. “No, no, not _that_ . I was with him the whole time, he just-” Arthur’s boot traces a nervous circle on the grass. “He woke up, just now, and he’s - unsettled. I tried, but- _well_ , you know how he gets-” Hosea sighs. That, he can handle. 

He puts the bowl in his hands on the flat patch of dirt by his feet and accepts Arthur’s hand, pulling himself to his feet and waving away Arthur’s worry at the way his knees click. 

He pats Arthur’s arm. “Go find Charles, hm? You won’t do any good sitting and stewing like this.” 

What he wants to say is, _let yourself be comforted, for once._

Charles knows Arthur almost as well as Hosea does, and he trusts that the man will look after his boy, and can settle Arthur in ways he can’t right now.

Arthur exhales, nodding and heading over to the fire, where Charles accepts his presence easily, pushing the arrowhead he’s whittling into Arthur’s hands. Hosea gives him a grateful look, turning towards the rotting steps of Shady Belle.

  
  


The room is silent and dim when he pushes open the door, someone - presumably Arthur- having thrown a spare blanket over the window to block out the glaring midday light.

Dutch is curled up on the bed, his eyes wide open and unseeing, chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. One of his hands is laid palm-up on the mattress, and Hosea takes it carefully, making sure to exaggerate his movements, making his footsteps heavier than normal. 

Dutch still flinches the barest amount at the touch, a tiny noise coming from his throat that hurts Hosea more than any bullet or blade. 

“Dutch?” Hosea prods quietly. “ _Dutch_ , look at me. You’re alright. ” 

Dutch’s gaze flits to Hosea’s face, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a shuddering, choked breath.

Hosea keeps his grasp on Dutch’s hand, lifting it to splay it flat against his own chest. He takes in the deepest breath his lungs will allow, stroking his fingers over the man’s wrist gently. “Dutch, dearest, _breathe_. With me.”

He takes another breath, pleased when Dutch’s shallow, rapid breaths deepen a fraction. The cycle repeats for a few minutes, until Dutch blinks, his fingers curling into Hosea’s shirt.

“...’sea.” His voice is hoarse, but whether from inner turmoil or physical pain, Hosea can’t tell.

“Dutch,” Hosea answers, curling his fingers lightly around Dutch’s wrist, feeling the peaks and valleys of veins under his fingertips. “What’s going on?” 

Dutch’s brows furrow, his shoulders hitching up to his ears. “I…” His voice breaks. “What am I doing, Hosea?”

Hosea straightens.

This isn’t a new conversation, and it’s far from the first time Dutch has worked himself into a panic over the decisions before him, but it’s the first time he’s done so in...a while.

Not since...before Blackwater. Before _Micah_.

Maybe there’s more of Dutch still left than he’d thought.

“Dutch, do you trust me?” Hosea asks calmly.

“Always.” The whisper comes from Dutch’s lips with no hesitation.

Hosea leans forward, lightly pressing his forehead against the other man’s. “I trust you,” he murmurs, feeling the way Dutch’s pulse jumps at his words. “I _trust you_. I always have. I’ve followed you for more than twenty years, Dutch, and I’m not going to cut loose now because we’ve had a bad streak of luck.” He tightens his fingers on Dutch’s wrist, moving to press a long kiss on the man’s jaw. 

Dutch shudders, inhaling sharply at the touch. “I just…” He swallows, his grip on Hosea tightening. “You...” His eyes have unfocused again.

“What, dearest?” Hosea prompts gently. He pries Dutch’s fingers off of his shirt, pressing his lips to the back of the hand.

Dutch sucks in a breath, eyes wide and glossy. “Hosea, I can’t... _you’re all I got_.”

Hosea frowns, letting go of Dutch’s hand in favor of sliding onto the bed and pulling the man into his arms. He smooths a hand down the man’s back, caressing the quivering, tense muscles under his fingertips. “I’m here, Dutch. I’m _here_ , where did this come from?”

Dutch buries his face into Hosea’s neck, and Hosea frowns when he feels a tear fall onto his skin. “Dearest...” he soothes, scratching the nape of Dutch’s neck lightly. 

Dutch sucks in a quavering breath, shaking mutely until Hosea taps his shoulder in a silent reminder to breathe. “I’m so tired of- of being _scared_ , I can’t- I don’t know-” His voice breaks, and Hosea has to strain to hear his next words. “ _I don’t know what’s real, no more_.” 

Hosea has to close his own eyes against the sudden burn for a moment, swallowing hard before he opens his mouth. “Dutch-”

Dutch sits up rapidly, not entirely managing to hide his wince of pain. “I’m- I’m so _sorry_ , Hosea, I know things have been hard, I swear I’m trying to get us out of this, _please_ , I _swear-_ ”

Dutch’s breath has picked up again, eyes frantic and unseeing and still glossy. Hosea gently pries both of his hands away from where they’re tugging on his hair and cradling his partner’s face between his palms. Dutch snaps his mouth shut, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. 

“ _Neshama Sheli, breathe.”_

Dutch gives a full-body shiver at the endearment, inhaling unsteadily through his nose.

“Good,” Hosea whispers, stroking his thumbs under Dutch’s eyes. “Look at me, dear.”

Dutch’s eyes open, fixing on the mattress in front of Hosea. 

“At _me_ , _matok_.”

Dutch’s gaze is wild, wide-open and _scared_ , when it meets Hosea’s, looking so much like it did years ago when Hosea had walked in on him panicking for the first time.

“You’re _safe._ This is _real_ , I am _real_ , and I’m _here,_ Dutch. I’ve _been_ here. I’ve just been waiting for _you_ to realize it, too.”

Dutch’s face crumples. “I’m _so sorry_ -”

“All we _need_ from you, dearest,” Hosea continues, caressing Dutch’s cheekbone with his thumb, “is to remember we’re here, too. How long has it been since you’ve checked on Arthur? John?”

Dutch shakes his head, face still creased in anguish. “I...I don’t know.”

Hosea smooths a thumb over one of Dutch’s furrowed brows. “We’re here, and we’re behind you, Dutch. You’ve just got to take a moment to see it.” 

Dutch nods, his gaze miles away, face tight with pain. "I need-"

“You _need_ to _rest_ , Dutch,” Hosea says, gently tugging on the man’s shoulder. “All this stress won’t do your head any favors.”

He puts a pillow in his lap and tugs Dutch down, sliding another cushion between his own back and the wall in a vain effort to reduce how stiff he’ll be in a few hours. 

It’s worth it for the way Dutch settles immediately, limbs relaxed and loose.

“Does the light still hurt?” Hosea murmurs, remembering Dutch’s wince of pain from earlier. 

Dutch grunts. 

Hosea thanks whoever’s listening that he put on his ascot because it means he doesn’t have to jostle Dutch. He undoes the knot in the fabric, folding it into a thin strip and tucking it around Dutch’s eyes. 

Idly, he notices that the bruising on Dutch’s skull has crept down behind his ear. 

Dutch squeezes Hosea’s knee in silent thanks, and Hosea’s attention shifts from the bruising as the younger man presses a long kiss to his thigh. 

Hosea leans his head back against the wall, fingers tangling in Dutch’s hair and digging into the man’s scalp in that way that makes Dutch go boneless immediately.

  
  


_One more moment of peace,_ he pleads silently. 

  
  


One more quiet afternoon, before the swiftly rushing end.

* * *

_But toward him, there is something fierce and terrible in me eligible to burst forth,_

_I dare not tell it in words, not even in these songs._


End file.
